


Pack Disasters

by ShadowSpires



Series: Pack Relations [2]
Category: Captain America (2011), Marvel
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:28:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowSpires/pseuds/ShadowSpires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where people's souls walk beside them in animal form, a mission with the Howling Commandos goes badly.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>They were both still unconscious. Three days later, and they were both still unconscious.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Bucky’s breath hitched in an almost-sob before he got control of it. What if this was his fault?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack Disasters

Sequel to: [Pack Dynamics](445994)

*****************

Bucky was almost quivering with tension; shame and fear and sorrow all tangled up in a sharp-edged, writhing ball in his stomach.  
  
He sat ramrod still in the chair next to Steve’s bedside, Aensia curled in a small, depressed ball at his side. Sarea was draped out over Steve’s legs.  
  
They were both still unconscious. Three days later, and they were both still unconscious.  
  
Bucky’s breath hitched in an almost-sob before he got control of it. What if this was his fault?

********  
 _Three Days Prior_  
********

They’d just finished blowing up another one of Hydra’s factories, mission accomplished, when they’d been ambushed by a patrol they had somehow missed. It was only by some miracle that no one had taken any bullets, or been disintegrated by those awful blue guns. It was only by the grace of God and Howard (the squad had already promised to take that man out for a drink in thanks for that amazing shield that had once again saved their Captain’s life) that Steve wasn’t dead.  
  
One of those creepy fucks with the blue guns had almost snuck up on them; only Aensia’s shouted warning as she wrestled with one of their badger daemons had Steve bringing up the shield in time to deflect that deadly beam. Unfortunately, it had smashed into and destroyed the trunk of a huge tree, sending debris everywhere. Falling tree limbs smashed into Hydra and Commando alike - the former with assistance from the later in a couple of cases - but it hadn’t been until Bucky had seen Serea drop like a poleaxed deer that he’d turned to see Steve on the ground, bleeding from the forehead.    
  
He’d been so afraid... He’d been at Steve’s side before he registered moving, trembling fingers reaching out for a pulse (it’s be there, it had to be, steve was still alive, Serea, beautiful, bold gorgeous Serea was still here, motionless like her other half, but still solid, still real, not dispersing in a golden cloud like the daemons of their attackers as the Commandos reacted to the felling of their Captain with extreme prejudice) and almost collapsing when he found it, fingers pressed to Steve’s neck, counting the beats as if that was all that was keeping *his* heart beating. His other hand ghosted gently over around Steve’s head wound, relieved beyond expression when he felt no depression, no sign that the skull was cracked or broken.  
  
A hand fell on his shoulder.  
  
Morita, left arm tucked tightly to his side, stood behind him, giving him a worried look as the rest of the commandos scanned their surroundings for more foes.  
  
“We need to go.” It was true, damn it all, they had to leave, and they had to leave *now.* The destruction of a factory would attract every enemy combatant for *miles* and they still had quite a trek to their retrieval point. With Steve, and subsequently Serea, unconscious-  
  
“We’re going to have to carry them.” Bucky’s voice was flat. He wasn’t one for stating the obvious, but he needed to this time. Even if only for the vain hope that someone would contradict him.  
  
Not likely; with Steve down Bucky was in charge, and they all knew what this was going to mean.  
  
Someone was going to have to carry Steve - Jones, probably, at least at first. He didn’t appear to be injured, and that man bench-pressed an insane amount of weight every day. Also, more importantly, somewhere in that man’s crazy education he’d picked up more than a bit of medical knowledge. So he would carry Steve - and some one was going to have to carry Serea.  
  
Someone was going to have to *touch* Serea.  
  
Bucky wanted to close his eyes, to block out the reality of this situation. But he didn’t have the luxury of denial, or time. Urgency pounded at him, telling him to *move* damn it!  
  
“Jones,” He got out, voice choked. “You’ve got Steve, at least at first. Falsforth, you’ve got point, Jacques, you up for scouting?” At the Frenchmen’s nod he continued. “Morita, you’re third. Dugan, rear-guard.”  
  
They traded looks, but Bucky ignored them. Normally Steve took point and Bucky scouted but this time Bucky needed to-  
  
“You gonna take Serea, Lt.?” That was Morita, voice careful. As aggressive as the man was he was often, surprisingly enough, cast in the role of peacekeeper. Or lion tamer, the slightly hysterical part of Bucky’s brain chimed in. Morita was often the one to get tossed in the lion’s den - or was that wolf’s den? - to mediate if either Bucky or Steve got in a snit.  
  
“Yes,” Bucky snapped, stalking towards her.  
  
“She’s gonna get heavy, Bucky.” And that was Dugan. Bucky knew it was honest concern, knew it wasn’t intended as anything-  
  
His fists were clenched tight as he spun towards Dugan, aggression in every line of his body; the low, almost subvocal whine of distress Aensia had been omitting since Serea went down morphed into a rippling snarl as she turned on Demetria.  
  
“No one else will touch her!” Bucky’s voice was almost a match for his daemon.  
The cream coloured mastiff daemon tucked her head and her tail, posture screaming submission and apology, even as Dugan winced and dropped back a couple of paces, hands up.  
  
“No challenge here, Lt.,” Dugan assured him. “Just making it clear, if it becomes necessary...” He trailed off, looking uncertain. They all did, though there was really no other option.  
  
They had limited supplies and even less time; they couldn’t stop for the amount of time it would take to jury-rig two briers out of the material they had, they didn’t even have time for him to waffle any more.  
  
But still, touching another person’s daemon?  
  
There were laws in place to enact harsh punishments for anyone that did so without permission. Those laws were rarely broken, because to do so was the ultimate violation; something so unthinkable that even rapists almost never even attempted to touch their victim’s daemons. Contrarily, there were laws within the military code that allowed it under just these circumstances; when a squad member and his daemon was rendered unconscious and there was no other option but to move them. There were guidelines and procedures in place, insulation, for one, limit as much direct contact as possible. Wear gloves, wrap the daemon in a blanket if possible but also limit the number of different people who handled the injured daemon.  
  
Touching another person’s daemon was like touching their soul. There were few people who researched the connections between people and their deamons. Most saw that study as a form of blasphemy, almost. The lack of information was part of the reason they still weren't sure what touching another person’s deamon did. It wasn’t exactly something they could experiment with. It happened on occasion, normally only between long-established couples, and then only rarely. They almost never spoke of the experience.  
  
Now Bucky was going to have to do it. Going to have to touch Steve’s deamon. Without his permission.  
  
If Bucky took this on it would be him until the end. If? That was nonsense and he knew it. He could not, would not, allow one of the others to touch Steve’s daemon like this. Not while they were both so vulnerable. No matter how much he trusted the rest of the squad. This was Steve. He’s been longing for his friend so long he didn’t know how not to. Protecting his friend so long he hardly knew how to do anything else. It was going to have been enough of a violation for Bucky to have done so, let alone anyone else.  
  
He stopped in front of Serea, crouched at her side. He was already wearing gloves, which was good, though they were fingerless in deference to his sniper rifle’s finicky trigger.  
  
They were traveling light. Extremely so. They had no blankets, no spare jackets even, and they all needed theirs. It was cold, could be murderously so if their core temperatures dropped too far, and they still had a ways to walk. He’d have no extra insulation between him and her, between him and feeling her glorious pelt, the strength of her muscles, the heat of her body and the thrum of life through her.  
  
He’d dreamed of this; in secret dreams he could barely admit to himself. More shameful than the ones in which he touched Steve, made him writhe and beg in pleasure, were the ones in which he simply kissed Steve, gently, slowly, and reached trembling fingers out to brush through that dark pelt.  
  
It was soft, that was the only impression Bucky got before a feeling like a muffled lightening strike sent him to his knees with a soundless cry; warmth and light surged through him like a sudden flood and Bucky almost felt like he was loosing his grasp on himself when it faded abruptly to nothing more than a warm glow. Bucky blinked, and found himself kneeling at Serea’s side, fingers clenched tightly into her ruff, Aensia huddled into his side, both of them panting desperately.  
  
The rest of the squad was studiously ignoring them; stripping weapons off the bodies of the patrol that had ambushed them. Howard was always wanting more of those blue glowing things to play with. Jones carefully checked over Steve.  
  
He struggled to control his breathing and carefully, before he could procrastinate any further and loose them more of their priceless time, scooped up Steve’s soul into his arms.  
The warm press of her to his chest sent renewed, though muted, ripples of that same feeling shuddering through him. He locked his knees until it faded.  
  
Dugan was helping to get Steve onto Jones’ back - that would be the easiest way to carry him. They’d bind him to Jones so the man could have his hands free in case they ran into difficult terrain. He’d have a knife ready to cut him free if need be. Bucky took a moment to breath and then, when they were all ready, took off in the direction that would take them to their extraction.  
  
The team stent to extract them hadn’t been able to help gaping when they’d walked out of the treeline. Captain Rogers being obviously wounded had garnered some concern, though Bucky didn’t want to know what they would think it they knew it was actually captain America being hauled into their camp wounded.  Captain America under Jones’ long coat. They’s taken a moment just before entering eyesight of the transport to try and carefully conceal Steve’s identity. His cowl was tucked carefully into Dugan’s pocket, and he’d thankfully been wearing a relativly normal looking coat over that stupid target of a costume. Jones had shifted him off and draped his coat over him as well to cover any remaining insignia. (That had only been about 5 minutes ago, and the man was already shivering slightly, though he tried to hide it. They would all be thankful to get inside the transport vehicles.) Bucky would have snarled at the pettiness of it, but they couldn’t let the Captain America image be tainted by defeat, even one so minor -please, let it be minor; it had been *hours* and Steve hadn’t so much as twitched- so it was just plain Captain Rogers that was slung over Jones’ back. No matter how interesting the captain was,  it was Bucky who caught and held the retrieval squad’s attention.  
  
Bucky, who was touching another’s daemon. They’d been getting stories from behind enemy lines, about camps and death and experiments. About scientists with no souls, who committed the ultimate crime, who touched another’s daemon without their permission. Who were performing horrible experiments, ripping people away from their deamons.  
  
The Commandos glared in response to the looks their second was getting; horrified fascination and disgust. Humans shying away, stepping between him and their daemons, *daemons* shying away, as if afraid he’s just reach out and -  
  
Bucky was too tired to notice it all though. Physically, but mostly emotionally. Every time a new part of Serea touched him those ripples of light and emotion had wracked through him uncontrolled. The one time he’d had to place her down completely and then take her up in his arms again had sent him crashing to his knees again momentarily. It left him feeling disoriented and overwhelmed. He quietly despaired that if it was doing this to him, what was it doing to Steve?  
  
Barely able to see, let alone speak or be his usual observant self he let himself be enfolded in the protective circle of the commandos; clambering awkwardly into the back of the vehicle and settling down in one corner with Serea still in his lap. Jones and Dugan managed to carefully wrestle Steve inside and lay him down on hastily arranged padding, head almost pillowed on Bucky’s thigh. Aensia curled up against his other side and Bucky freed a hand to rub soothingly at her ears.  
  
The human members of the squad formed a semi-circle around them. Their daemons formed one outside that, gaining them far more than their fair share of the cargo room as the other soldiers kept a careful distance.  
  
He couldn’t bare to let her go.  
  
In part that was because he knew he’d still have to get her off this convoy and into their next transport and all the way back to camp. Somehow. He didn’t think he could take another one of those overwhelming surges again; not without passing out and leaving them all with twice the problem. It was much easier to deal with the low level buzz than a renewed surge. So he was just going to keep his hold on her, and the others could be damned for what they were thinking, they didn’t matter. Also-  
  
Also he just wasn’t ready to give this feeling up just yet, no matter how much shame beat at him because this wasn’t Steve’s *choice.* He would never be ready, never wanted to live without this ever again; yes it was overwhelming but it was so, so good, warm and light and full of every positive emotion he could name. Light beating back the darkness and anger that always lived inside him, but had been growing so much since Steve had rescued him from that Hydra factory. He ruthlessly suppressed the memories that wanted to rise and almost wept at how much easier that warm feeling made it. It’s not like they were lovers (no matter how much bitter sadness that lack evoked in Bucky), and hell, it was the rare pair of lovers indeed, usually married couples of many years, who touched each other’s daemons.  
  
He shook his head to clear it. What was done was done; he’d deal with the consequences later (the tiny exhausted voice in his head was screaming that Steve was going to hate them, was going to see this as betrayal, would want them off his squad, out of his life) it wasn’t like he’d had any other options.  
  
He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. If his hand began to unconsciously stroke though coarse fur, began to take an arc that slipped it from dark silky pelt into fine strands of golden hair? Well, there was nothing quite like a wall of glaring commandos and their daemons to encourage curious eyes to find something else to look at.  
  
*****  
 _The Present_  
*****  
  
Bucky leaned forward and planted his head on the mattress. He maintained a careful distance from Serea, but many of the nurses still gave him startled, almost fearful looks. He suppressed a mirthless laugh at their reactions. They knew why he’d done it, knew there had been no other choice, and they still shied away from him like he was *infectious. * Like at any moment he’d decide to reach out and *touch* one of their daemons. He sneered into the covers in disgust at the thought of touching one of their daemons (though oh, how his hand itched to reach out and touch the rough silk of Serea, to feel that warmth and light again). They were acting like he was some kind of monster. The looks they’s garnered throughout camp, even just on the brief trip from where their transport had parked to the medical tent and through the ward itself, hadn’t been concerned over the fact that the best man they’d ever have the fortune to meet was unconscious with no sign of waking. Instead it had been horrified fascination at the sensationalistic, scandalous, down right disturbing sight that was someone carrying someone else’s daemon. For some, the ones who were actually thinking, that was quickly replaced with a kind of apprehensive pity. They all new it was possible that they might some day need to do the same thing, it was always a possibility.  
  
  
Bucky ignored the creaking of the chair next to him that indicated another visitor. He’d been at Steve’s bedside since they’d gotten back. He’d stood there, Serea cradled in his arms, ignoring everyone around him until they’d gotten Steve settled. Then he’d draped her gently over his legs. It wasn’t the way they preferred to sleep - tangled up together, completely intertwined - but better for the doctors and nurses who’d have to tend them). He’d set her down, run his hand along the length of her one last time, then took a step back - and hit the ground like a puppet who’s strings had been cut.  
  
He’d woken in the bed next to Steve’s in the middle of the night. He’d promptly dragged himself out of said bed and installed himself at Steve’s side; not to be moved for anything. Col. Phillips had come by, taken one look at the expression on Bucky’s face and had apparently decided it wasn’t worth the headache, the time spent yelling or the effort on paperwork when Bucky inevitably ignored any order he might give to leave Steve’s side.  
  
Command School 101 Bucky thought dryly. Never give an order you know wont be obeyed.  
Phillips addendum: It’s not worth the hassle.  
  
It had been almost three days since Steve went down and he hadn’t so much as twitched. He healed fast now, since whatever had changed him from the skinny little Steve Rogers into this...big, buff Steve Rogers.  There hadn’t been full disclosure, apparently some of it was still classified, but there was no denying they were the same person. The same goodness shone like a beacon out of him now as it had before. When Steve was still just this little scrawny, scrappy thing that didn’t know when to quit. The same fool-headed stubbornness made his chin tilt and his eyes blaze.  
  
If only they would blaze right now. It had been days, and they were still unconscious, and the doctors couldn’t find a reason and it was all Bucky’s fault. It had to be. It wasn't that bad of a head wound; Cap had had them before. The only aberration in this situation was Bucky’s contact with Serea. It had taken almost two days to get back to camp and he’d been in constant contact with her for the duration. It had seemed like the best idea at the time; it was easier for him to bare the constant contact, rather than those knee-weakening bursts, so he imagined it must be the same for them, if they were feeling it at all. But now...no one truly *knew* what the effects of touching another persons daemon, or having them touch yours *were* on the brain. It had felt...wonderful, indescribable. To him. But that had to be because Steve and Serea were practically beacons of goodness and light. Of course touching their soul felt good to him. But what about to them? Bucky was under no illusions. He wasn’t the best person around. He couldn’t help but think some of his own darkness might had sunk into Serea and Steve for them to still be unconscious.  
  
The sniper’s tension turned into tiny, suppressed shudders as he considered the possibility that in the necessity of saving his friend’s life he’d irreparably damaged him.  
  
“He’ll be fine,” Said a voice from the chair next to him. Morita again. Bucky managed a rueful smile when he looked up at the Japanese American. His left arm was in a sling, and Bucky made an interrogatory sound.  
  
“Not broken,” he was informed. “Just strained the shoulder and gained some deep bruising when that big branch hit me. I’m not having any luck with this arm this year.” He finished ruefully. This was the second time this year he’d ended up with that arm in a sling.  
  
Hoshi was wedged into the sling as well, which was an indication that the injury wasn’t serious. He could probably go without it, but was indulging his daemon’s wishes and keeping in on.  
  
“He’ll be fine, Barnes,” Morita repeated. “The Captain’s strong.”  
  
Bucky nodded. Steve had always been the strongest person he knew, even before the outside grew to match the inside.  
  
“Can I convince you to let me take watch? Go take a shower, a nap?”  
  
Bucky cast him a scathing glance.  
  
“No.” What if he woke up? Bucky needed to be there, needed at least the chance to explain, to be the first to tell him-  
  
Morita sighed.  
  
“Yeah, I though not. Here,” He handed him the cup of soup and a roll that had been on the floor by his side. “At least eat, if you won’t go sleep.”  
  
Bucky gave him a grateful smile and a thank you, sipping appreciatively at the hot liquid.

  
Morita stood and, after giving Steve a firm squeeze on the shoulder, walked back out of the tent.

  
Buck finished his soup and resumed his vigil. The same way he had since he’d woken up again; one had curled almost desperately into Aensia’s fur, eyes fixed on his friend, willing him to be okay, to wake up.


End file.
